


Astarmo

by Ancalimë (Cymbidia)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Gen, Nimloth - Freeform, The Faithful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 09:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbidia/pseuds/Ancalim%C3%AB
Summary: An audience is gathered to witness the felling of Nimloth, the White Tree of Númenor.Q. astarmo: n. bystander; witness.





	Astarmo

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, here's another super belated b2mem fill. For the prompts Nimloth/Ar-Pharazon/astarmo (bystander/witness)
> 
> PS, I didn't think it warranted a MCD warning, but there is a brief mention of canon character death at the end (Tar-Miriel, Akallabeth, you get the picture).

When Ar-Pharazôn came for the White Tree, the whole court was there. A throng of well dressed onlookers had been corralled into a ring around fair Nimloth. The area around the tree had long ago been paved with flagstone, to convenience those who once congregated here, picnicking and praying and reciting dreamy Elvish poems about Tol Eressëa. Now the paving was in disrepair, and the unjoyous gathering was for a much fouler purpose.

The King’s loyal courtiers and generals rejoiced upon command and pretended they were not uneasy. Those of the cult of Melkor vied for the honour of being the one to bring down the tree. Icy Míriel, pale and wan in her elaborate court dress, watched on from a pavilion with gauzy walls, her face carved from blank marble. Amandil and his children lurked on the outskirts of the gathered nobility, ashen with fury. Isildur clutched at a spot next to his heart, where a precious treasure had rested just last night. He had brought destruction upon fair Nimloth, and now he could do nothing but watch in silence, lest Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn grow suspicious and order a search of his quarters.

It was disgustingly ceremonial. Pharazôn was posturing upon the raised platform in front of the hallowed tree, dressed in full regalia, surrounded by high officials and cultists in golden robes. Sauron, blight-bringer that he was, had elected to stand brazenly beside the king, no longer pretending to be prisoner or counsellor. They made a striking sight: two beautiful golden figures bespeckled with white petals, gleaming like fire in the warm light of dusk, surrounded by an entourage of similarly burnished underlings. But the shimmering fire that entombed then was nothing like the pure cold gleam of Nimloth, beautiful and unprofaned. They were interlopers, every last one of them.

Sauron and Pharazôn both looked solemn and grave, as if they had been greatly wronged.

“A thief stole into my court last night,” Pharazôn announced with sober determination. “Perhaps he sought to take this last idol from Valinor for his own use, to rally those heretics who would see our birthright kept from us. But he failed, as all injustices against the race of Men must fail, and now, I shall make take away the temptation from him. We shall uproot this tree, as we shall uproot all heretics, as we shall uproot the Valar themselves, to make ready for the return of our Lord Melkor. For Melkor is the Emancipator Of Men, he who shall return to us our birthright, and help us take back all that has been stolen from us! Fear not the foolish prophecies of my predecessor! The fate of Númenor shall be tied to this tree no longer, just as the fate of Men shall never more be dictated by the whims of the so called gods! Its wood shall light the first fire in the great Temple of Melkor, and we Men of the West shall nevermore be thralls of the Valar!”

The gathered crowd was silent, some reverent and some hateful. But one and all stood and watched as gold cloaked acolytes of the cult swarmed around Nimloth. Some of the cultists began hacking away at the exposed roots, while others scaled the tree and tied ropes to it for pulling. A team of empty eyed oxen was brought forth by two men with long whips. But the tree would not budge. The tense silence turned restless as the acolytes hacked fruitlessly at the tree roots. The rope could not be made to sit correctly against the trunk. The oxen shifted and stamped the ground, making noises of fear as they tried to inch away from Sauron’s foul presence.

“The roots are too stubborn, your majesty,” an acolyte could be heard whispering. “They have grown too deep, and spread too far, and we cannot gain sufficient leverage with the paving in the way.”

Pharazôn glances at Sauron, then away. “Rip it up,” he ordered. “Get these people off the paving and rip it all up.”

Sauron ignored the exchange, ripping the axe from the acolyte’s hand. “Stand aside,” he ordered shortly. He made his way to the tree in three long strides.

“Mairon! What are you doing?” Pharazôn cried out, hastening to follow, then flinching back as Sauron raised the axe and swung down. The first strike left a glancing mark the bark. Sauron snarled, and raised the axe again. Alarmed acolytes scattered, and the oxen lowed and began to struggle against their rope harnesses. The axe bit into the trunk with a thud that seemed to rattle the earth.

Amandil and the Faithful turned their faces away. Míriel stared at the scene with perfect stillness. Isildur clenched his hands tightly enough that he felt blood begin to well from his palms. The cultists hovered anxiously around Sauron, and did not dare to approach. As Sauron raised the axe once more, one of the oxen broke free and went dashing into the throng of gathered nobility.

People shrieked as the ox ran amok, and the soldiers forming a circle around the crowd shifted and inched their hands closer to their weapons.

“Collect yourselves!” shouted Pharazôn, gritting his teeth and looking like he wished to draw his sword. Sauron paid the commotion no mind as he howled and snarled at the tree, cleaving into it with huge swinging blows. The White Tree of Númenor seemed like so much crumbling driftwood under his axe. As the tree shook and trembled with each blow, a riotous storm of leaves and petals rained down. There was a bitter fragrance.

Sauron got the worst of the deluge. He paused to shake out his mane of spectacularly beautiful hair, then spat out a stray petal that had gotten into his mouth. He spat again for good measure. “Don’t just stand there!” He bit out at the cultists. “Drive the oxen and begin pulling!”

As whips cracked and ropes creaked, the tree bent and bent until the trunk was almost at right angles, but still it did not fall over or uproot itself. Sauron gave three more mighty swings, and the tree finally toppled over, cleaved clean through at the base.

Sauron threw aside his axe without looking, almost hitting a cultist in the foot. “Transport the wood to the Great Temple,” he ordered coldly. “And begin work on ripping up the roots. I want every last trace of it gone from this accursed garden by the next sundown.”

The cultists cringed and murmured their obedience.

“It is done,” Pharazôn said, hesitant smugness twitching at the corners of his lips.

Sauron looked at him, all pretense of warmth gone. “It is done,” he agreed, and began walking away in a flurry of swirling robes. Pharazôn hurried to follow, and the cultists and guards and soldiers all retreated after them. Pharazôn’s lapdogs left too, leaving only the Faithful and Míriel, still in her pavilion, not having moved so much as a single hair since she sat down. A soft wail sounded from the desolate gathering, but none dared mourn too loudly. It was not until a palanquin arrived for Míriel that she came to life. She stood, and got in, and sat, and stared unblinkingly into the middle distance as she was carried away, the expression on her face concealed by the gauzy fabric shielding the sides of the gold encrusted box.

“He shall pay,” she murmured. “Please, oh merciless Valar in your distant heavens, he must pay.” No one heard her, not even the palanquin bearers. A sigh dissipated into the winds.

Tar-Míriel was carried away, and would not be seen again until water churned and earth crumbled in the Downfall of Númenor. She was glimpsed lead a congregation of handmaidens up the Meneltarma, climbing and smiling grimly until a wave came down and washed them all out to sea.

**Author's Note:**

> not gonna lie i almost named this one tree hill but like i don't think the court was on a significant hill??? maybe? correct me if I'm wrong. But also I couldn't do it because obviously the actual time the tree got cut down in real life one tree hill in an act of activism is not something to be equated with Sauron desecrating Nimloth so I resisted the urge. Barely.


End file.
